Every You And Every Me
by Kay Taylor
Summary: BillCharlie, based on the Hogwarts Online RPG. A story about learning to love. Part one of three.


Charlie knows he should be smiling, really, because Bill is the first Head Boy in the family, and as the light catches off his shiny new badge at the head of the Gryffindor table, he can see a hundred smiling faces. Bill is popular, not only for his smiles and easy laughter and fair-handed way of putting people at their ease, but also for his creamy white skin, scattered with freckles, his curving lips and tall, angular physique. It must have been a surprise for their parents when Charlie came after Bill; because Charlie is as powerfully built and well-muscled as Bill is slender and graceful, though in other respects they're almost identical – the same hair, the same eyes, the same voice.  
  
But Charlie can see what doesn't matter to anyone else, because no-one knows Bill like he does; he can see Bill's arm, slipped around the dark-haired girl next to him, coming to rest possessively on her hip. And Charlie swallows and looks down, starts a too-loud coversation with his team-mates about the upcoming Quidditch season. It shouldn't bother him, after two years, to see his brother with a girl. But he can't deny that it makes him feel weak with jealousy, to know that she'll be the recipient of Bill's kisses this term.  
  
Charlie is a Seeker, despite his unusual build. It's the speed that matters, of course, and the daring. He's never been afraid to throw himself to the ground from thirty feet up, diving after the Snitch in a horrible sickening plummet of sky and clouds and earth rushing up to meet him. He's been in the Infirmary twice now, and term hasn't even started officially. The rest of the team say that he must have taken a Bludger to the head, as a child, because sometimes he will risk moves that no-one else ever thought were possible, looping somersaults and swan-dives, a flurry of red and gold. He could have a girlfriend if he wanted – could have several, in fact, because he's not bad-looking, either. But this doesn't interest him. He doesn't see how they could find him attractive, limping off the pitch in the growing dusk, broomstick slung over his shoulder, his shoulders sunburnt and lips chapped by the wind. They don't _know_ him.  
  
Of course, that lends him an air of mystery, and they just try harder. There's speculation amongst the Quidditch groupies that behind the smiles and laughter, Charlie Weasley has a Secret, and they'd die to get it out of him. Some believe that, despite all evidence to the contrary, he once had a girlfriend, and she either broke his heart or died. Some believe that he's given himself so completely to the game that girls would just be another unwelcome distraction. No-one realises that he likes boys instead. Least of all, no-one guesses the truth, that if you peeled away all the layers of skin, cracked his chest open and laid his heart bare for the world to see, it would have the name Bill' etched there in jagged, bloody letters, to the core.  
  
He never meant to fall in love, and it still amazes him that it got this far. Everyone talks about first love, adolescent crushes, fleeting affection that's just as easily displaced by Quidditch, or chocolate, or the next pretty someone with unusual eyes. But Charlie can still remember the day he woke up next to Bill, and all he could think was I love you'. He was sixteen years, two months, three weeks and two days old at the time; and the sun came in through the attic window, tracing the delicate lines of Bill's eyelashes, the fullness of his lips, a tiny money-spider spinning away in his flaming hair. And he leant down and planted a kiss on Bill's lips, warm from sleep, and Bill murmured something and fastened his arms around Charlie, pulling him close. Charlie put his head on Bill's chest, closing his eyes, a little breathless at the _newness_ of it all, and the nagging suspicion that this wasn't right, that you're not meant to fall in love with your own _brother_.  
  
He couldn't help it.  
  
And it has to be a secret, of course, because Charlie's nightmare is that Bill will find out one day, and laugh at him. Laugh at little Charlie with his half-formed fantasies about dates and ice-cream and being together, just the two of them, with no girls or school or family to get in the way. Part of him knows that Bill wouldn't do that, but then he'd still be shocked, because Charlie never gives anything away.  
  
Oh, by the way, I'm in love with you.  
  
It slips fairly easy off the tongue, when Charlie mouths it to himself in the mirror, the shower rooms darkened. It comes easily and unbidden to mind, when Charlie's thinking about something important, or when Bill comes up to him in the common room.  
  
Hey Charlie, you'll never guess what happened in Potions today  
  
What? Oh, and by the way. I'm in love with you. In his mind's eye, he sees Bill's face change, the shock in his eyes, the involuntary step backwards. And he knows that he would _die_ right then and there on the spot if the first thing out of Bill's mouth in response isn't And I'm in love with you.  
  
And it'll never be, so Charlie keeps the secret well, clutching it to   
his heart. He's learnt not to give things away.  
  
They never touch, not while they're at Hogwarts – it's too easy to get caught. While the teachers turn a blind eye to the perennial groping in the Astronomy Tower, Bill and Charlie know that the world would crash down around them if two brothers were caught in bed together. So it's an unspoken rule, that nothing happens, that they don't even refer to it during term-time. And Charlie catalogues the physical contact in his mind (so meticulous, for such a poor student); today Bill's hand brushes against Charlie's as he passes over a letter from home, three days ago Bill leant over him at dinner to get the salt. A week before, Bill had put his hand on Charlie's shoulder in passing, and Charlie almost had to close his eyes at the sudden barrage of sensory images – darkness, the taste of Fizzing Whizbees on Bill's tongue, the smell of sweat.  
  
They go home for the holidays, of course, and on Hogwarts Express Charlie's hands are damp with anticipation, his heart in his throat, inwardly chanting: _Please don't let it be this time please don't let him be tired of me please let him touch me please' _And he sleepwalks through the journey home, the noisy clucking of the chickens outside the front door of the Burrow, the smell of his mother's cooking. Bill catches his eye across the dinner table and smiles, and Charlie feels all the blood rushing to his face, because the smile is a promise. The beds in the attic are small, and Bill Charms them together, deftly locking and sealing and Silencing with a flick of his wand. The wind whistles through the eaves as they melt into each other's arms, and Charlie has to remind himself to breathe.  
  
This is what he's been missing, what he's been wanting. His brother's arms are strong around him, so warm and _safe_ like home.  
  
Charlie whispers and his brother flashes him _that_ smile, and they're wrapped around each other, all warm bare skin and red hair. Bill kisses him, tasting sweet-sharp like the rhubarb crumble at tea, and it's all Charlie can do to stop the secret words spilling out of his mouth. So he smiles, instead, sliding down Bill's body, laving his tongue over the sensitive nipples, making them stand up in little pink buds, making Bill groan and arch his back.  
  
It's like a deep physical _ache_ of love as he slides Bill's hard cock into his mouth, and the noises Bill makes in response are so deep, so abandoned, that he wishes he could tell Bill that it could be like this all the time, just them. Just the slow touching and Bill's sighs in the dim light, the sweet warm tightness as Charlie buries himself deep in his brother, making him his – for a few sacred moments.   
  
Time always slows when they're together, Charlie trying to pour his heart into the movement of his hand on Bill's cock, slick with precome. Trying to memorise every gasp and kiss and taste. The look on Bill's face when he comes, breathing out his brother's name like a forgotten prayer.  
  
They curl up around each other, and Bill falls asleep quickly, murmuring contentedly into Charlie's neck. And Charlie brushes the sweat-soaked hair off Bill's face, wrapping himself loose-limbed around his brother's sleeping body. He stares at the ceiling, and knows that the holidays only last sixteen days.  
  
That year, Charlie breaks both his legs and chips a tooth playing Quidditch, but no amount of pleading owls from his mother will make him give up his position on the team. It's the House Cup semi-final against Ravenclaw, and a combination of bad luck, bad weather conditions and love makes him fall a clear forty feet.   
Gryffindor up fifty-forty, no sign of the Snitch, one Beater nursing a sprained wrist, the fog over the pitch making the players disorientated. The whole school has turned out to watch, of course, and the cheering is distant to Charlie, like the sound of waves breaking against a far-away cliff. Some girls in his House have made a banner with his name on, and it makes him smile faintly as he scans the empty skies, body poised for the faintest flutter of gold wings. But every now and then his eyes dart to the crowd, looking for the flash of red hair that lets him know Bill is there, watching him.  
  
Charlie's unusual build for a Seeker gives him the edge over his Ravenclaw opponent; she's fast, but can't turn as quickly as Charlie does, pushing forward with every ounce of his extra muscle and letting gravity and inertia do the rest. Her weight is too centred to let her copy Charlie's swinging turns and sickening dives, and twice she nearly gets knocked off her broom by a Bludger. Bill has his arm around a pretty blonde prefect, and he's whispering in her ear, never taking his eyes off Charlie.  
  
The Snitch comes into sight after fifty minutes of play, when most of the players are tired, or injured, and the fog has settled on Charlie's robes in a thousand freezing droplets, making his movements slightly clumsy. Nevertheless, he's the first to see the Snitch, and catches it easily in a looping dive, the ground hanging over his head as if the whole world's upside down. It's a moment before anyone realises he has it, and in that moment Bill kisses his girlfriend, slow and passionate, a Bludger swoops in too quickly for Charlie to notice, and he's slammed to earth.  
  
Charlie thinks that nobody knows, but the next week he's helping Hagrid with a young Acromantula, the only student in Care of Magical Creatures who's brave enough to go anywhere near the clicking pinchers and shrewd black eyes. Hagrid won't say where it's come from, but it's got a broken leg, and limps instead of crawling.  
  
It's a shame yeh fell like that, eh? Hagrid comments as Charlie hands him the dressings. Never normally one teh be caught by a Bludger, mind.  
  
Charlie nods, thinking of the sickening lurch in the pit of his stomach, the second before the Bludger hit. He had time to see Bill's eyes close, his hands winding in the girl's hair.  
  
Hagrid looks at him sideways. Ah, well. She's not the firs' pretty girl he's kissed now, Charlie. She won't be the las' one, neither.   
  
Charlie looks up, shading his eyes against the pale evening sun, Hagrid looming like a great dark boulder against the sky. He remembers that Hagrid always watches the Quidditch, using Omnioculars to follow the action, and wonder how many times they would show Charlie's heart in his throat as he looks at Bill, over and over and over again.  
  
Charlie puts Silencing charms up around his bed each night, in case he talks in his sleep. In case he accidentally gasps out to his room-mates how wonderful Bill's cock feels inside him, how sweet his kisses are. How much he loves him. He's heard enough of them talking about their girlfriends mid-slumber to be wary, because gossip spreads like wildfire at Hogwarts, and the fact that Charlie Weasley calls for his brother in his sleep would slick the wheels of the rumour mill, finer than grease.  
  
He doesn't trust entirely to the charms, though. And so he pushes a pillow into his mouth, tasting starch and clean cotton, as he slips off his pyjama bottoms and runs unsteady fingers over himself, dipping down between his legs to stroke his cock. He uses his left hand, clutching the pillow to him as he always clutches Bill, making small whimpers of pleasure that are thankfully muffled in the fabric.   
  
Charlie arches up into his hand, closing his eyes, thinking about the hot wet perfection of Bill's mouth, the lazy curve of his smile, the way he slides that talented mouth down Charlie's cock, slow and deep and steady. In the darkness of the heavy velvet drapes he can pretend for a while that Bill is here, listening for his breathing until he almost imagines he can hear it. Charlie wets his fingers and slides them inside himself, pushing them in deep until he's hot and wet and needy, silently begging into the pillow for Bill to fuck him, to take this _needing_, to be _here_ inside him, making him complete.  
  
Oh god Bill please please _please_ Charlie moans into the pillow, hand fisting his cock with long, hard strokes, seeing flashes of red hair and bright blue eyes, catching sight of Bill in his mind's eye, like he's always there, just around the corner. When he comes, it's hard and fast and silent, like plummeting to earth during a Quidditch match, like getting blinded by the sun.  
  
Next year, Charlie has a girlfriend. Her name is Cathy and she's the Gryffindor Keeper; picked off the reserve list after James took a Bludger to the head and was retired for a season. Charlie notices how she watches him fly, her eyes darting between him and the Quaffle, and how she hangs gracefully in the air. She uses her broomstick with the minimum effort, and her eyes are fixed on Charlie as he dives to earth. Six spectacular saves without breaking a sweat, and afterwards Charlie invites her down the Three Broomsticks with the rest of the team, to celebrate.  
  
She's as quiet as Charlie on the journey home, her long fingers entwined in his. She's tall and flat-chested, her eyes a brilliant shade of blue (like Bill), but there the resemblance ends. When they kiss, she tastes too sweet, the slippery sheen of her make-up coating Charlie's lips. The moon comes out, and her hair is blonde not red, and Charlie can feel himself shaking, but he's not sure why. She doesn't mind that he closes his eyes when he kisses. She doesn't mind that he never whispers her name.  
  
It doesn't appeal to him. She's too soft and smooth, so _alien_ under his hands, and she kisses too gently to evoke any real response. Charlie leaves her in the common room, ignoring the sideways glances from his team-mates. The next morning, it's all around Gryffindor that Charlie Weasley took Cathy Parry on a date, was seen kissing her goodnight on the road from Hogsmeade. Cathy smiles at him across the breakfast table, and Charlie wonders what he's set in motion, clenching his fists under the tablecloth. He tries not to think of Bill, his bright red hair and creamy pale skin, dusted with freckles.  
  
It lasts for a month, a whole month of kisses in deserted classrooms, Charlie holding her as though he's afraid she might break. Her hand moves up under his shirt, stroking his muscular chest, but Charlie can't tell her that it's all no use, that she's not _him_. There's one disastrous night after the first match against Slytherin, when their Captain throws a party, and everyone gets drunk on punch and cheap vodka. Charlie can't remember much the next day, beyond a vague impression that he'd had to put Cathy to bed, because she was tired. He remembers that she has flowers by her bed, and a tiny birthmark on her inner thigh. It takes a few days for the rumours to filter back to him, that the Gryffindor Seeker is hard and fast and hot in bed, that he keeps his eyes shut tightly and bites his lip.  
  
Charlie doesn't have the heart to tell Cathy that he can't remember a moment of it, and that if he slept with anyone that night, it was because his heart was _bleeding_ for Bill, who had left Hogwarts for good. He still writes, though - long, rambling letters about where he is and what he's doing, ending with a hurried 'I love you'.   
  
Everything but what Charlie _really_ wants to know.  
  
"Do you miss me?" he whispers to his reflection, hand going to the fading love-bite on his neck. "Oh, _please_ Bill. Tell me you miss me."  
His mind supplies the details, reading between the lines. Bill tells him he went out clubbing, and Charlie tortures himself with images of his brother dancing, flirting, kissing an anonymous someone on the dancefloor, body slippery with sweat. Bill mentions staying the night with their cousin, and Charlie clenches his fists, because everyone on that side of the family has red hair, too, and if Bill sleeps wrapped around him, it won't be so different from sleeping with Charlie.  
  
Charlie feels, perversely, that he's _cheated_ on Bill. He scrubs himself clean, letting the scalding water wash all traces of Cathy off his body. Slicks soap over himself, feeling Bill's touch under his skin, completing him from the inside out. Charlie closes his eyes, praying that Bill will be home for Christmas.  
  
"Have you missed me, little brother?"  
  
Charlie swallows. "Yes."  
  
Their parents have gone out to dinner with the Diggorys, and Bill and Charlie have stayed behind to babysit, watching the snow falling outside. Percy is curled up in an armchair by the fire, reading a book; his little face is oddly serious as he turns the pages, and his glasses keep slipping down his nose. He's too preoccupied to see Bill slide an arm around Charlie's waist, press those warm, soft lips to Charlie's neck. Ron and Ginny are running around in the kitchen, fighting with their play wands, as Charlie pulls Bill down onto his lap, straddling him on the lopsided staircase.  
  
Charlie knows he _shouldn't_, that he can't risk anyone running in and finding them, but that only makes him want it more. The doorways leading into the hallway are spelled shut, and Charlie starts to unbutton Bill's shirt, brushing cool fingers over Bill's nipples and making him gasp. Charlie drinks in the taste of him, memorising every curve and angle of his lips, the clean masculine smell of his hair. He latches onto Bill's neck, sucking gently as their erections rub together, as Bill presses up against him, eyes dark with need.  
  
He's missed this so much, _wanted_ this so much, until every kiss brings waves of shivering sensation. He kisses Bill thoroughly, then slides the jeans off his thighs, muscles taut. And Bill lets out a smothered moan as Charlie slides two fingers into the tight heat of him, hands slippery with precome and sweat as they rock together. He clutches at the bannister to keep his balance, thrusting hard into Bill's hand, the soft moans and gasps drowning out the distant sound of Ginny giggling.  
  
Bill's breathing is ragged as he clutches Charlie to him, leaning back against the stairs. There are red chafe-marks on Charlie's thighs, and Bill leans down to kiss them.  
  
"I love you," Charlie whispers, twining his fingers in Bill's damp hair.   
"I love you."  
  
Bill sighs contentedly, strong arms wrapped around his younger   
brother. "Mmm. Love you, Char."  
  
Charlie comes so close to telling him everything. There are any number of perfect lead-ins, so many opportunities that he lets trickle through his fingers, so many times when he almost leans in close and whispers I love you', giving the simple phrase all the inflections and meaning that he tries to keep hidden the rest of the time. Anyone else would think there's only one way to say it, but oh no. At eighteen, Charlie knows there are any number of ways to hand someone your heart, to let all your guards down for them. He can read the brotherly affection and _nothing more_ in Bill's eyes and voice after they've been together. And when Charlie replies, he keeps it on that level alone; fixes a picture of Bill _his brother_ in his mind's eyes, tries to dig back through the years to when Bill and he built treehouses and quarrelled over toy broomsticks and snuggled up in bed to read comics under the covers, nothing more. He strips the layers of his heart, the layers of his love, as far back as they'll go, until he answers with the love every boy has for his brother.  
  
Not the helpless, breathless love he feels for Bill.  
  
He could articulate it so many ways, really. He could start with the sense of security, of absolute rightness, that surrounds him like a comfort blanket when he's in Bill's arms. He could describe every single nuance of Bill's face and voice, every curve and dip of his body. He could go on to talk about the way his stomach plummets when Bill enters the room, the way his breathing feels shallower. He could tell Bill how it feels to kiss him, like _drowning_.  
  
But he doesn't. And he curses himself for being a coward, because he knows that whatever he says, Bill would try to understand. Charlie is a dreamer at heart, and wants it to be perfect, and that's why he says nothing. Because he wants the swelling crescendo of music, the glances across a crowded room, for Bill to realise without being _told_, even though he knows how futile that is. He doesn't want the awkwardness, the silences. And so he promises himself that he'll tell Bill soon. Just as soon as he knows that Bill loves him back.  
  
He waits, but Charlie doesn't mind the waiting.  
  
It's not a sad love. It's become so much a part of him that he can't even remember a time before. When he trudges off the Quidditch pitch in the pouring rain, and the practice has been _terrible_, and he's tired and nursing a bruised elbow from an ill-timed dive behind the scoring line, it comes back to him.  
  
Oh, and I love Bill, he whispers to himself, and smiles. And he knows that few people get to have a love like this, even once in a lifetime. Charlie knows he's lucky, to have found Bill this soon.   
  
For Bill to have been there, standing on tiptoes to gaze over the top of his cot when he was three days old.   
  
Charlie leaves Hogwarts that summer. He has good marks in Care of Magical Creatures, after three years of staying behind after class to help Hagrid with his latest acquisitions. Hagrid hasn't mentioned Bill to him in the nine months since the Quidditch game, but sometimes Charlie catches him looking at him sideways, almost thoughtfully. Towards the end of the year, he suggests that Charlie write to the Council; the governing body of the dragon reserves, a series of magically-protected, unplottable sites scattered across the world in a trail of scorch-marks.   
  
Change of scene, a little danger, he explains cryptically, tapping the side of his nose. Jes' the thing.  
  
Charlie hasn't thought much about what he wants to do with the rest of his life. Part of him assumes that he'll be like this forever, frozen at eighteen – the Gryffindor Seeker, part of that year's House Cup-winning team. He has a few friends, and no real enemies. He almost fails Divination, to his great surprise, but his mark in Charms more than makes up for it. Charlie smiles slightly when he finds out, because he knows that it's down to his facility with mumbled Silencing and Locking charms, whispered in the dark with Bill's lips moving down his neck, Bill's fingers tugging at his buttons.  
  
When Charlie goes home, this time Bill isn't there. His last letter said that he was in London, but Charlie knows Bill well enough to suspect that he's moved on since then, heading off for somewhere even more new and unfamiliar. The attic feels empty without him, and Charlie has to pull the blankets around him tightly to make up for the loss of Bill's warmth, arms wrapped around himself. He's got used to imagining Bill's breathing, but the sound of the wind in the eaves makes it harder to concentrate, and nothing could duplicate the feeling of Bill's hair lying across his bare chest. He lies on top of the sheets and writes letters, to the Council.  
  
Late August, and Bill still hasn't come home. Charlie sits on the front step, listening to the chickens clucking and pecking around him, slowly shredding a daisy into little white strips. His mother – perhaps mindful that this might very well be the last summer she sees her son at home – makes him iced lemonade, sweet and tart on his tongue. And beside him, piles of books, lent by Hagrid: Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit', Men Who Love Dragons Too Much' and Simple Flame-Proofing Spells'. He tells himself that he's sitting there because it catches the sun in the right way, heating the bricks until they're lovely and warm to sit on. But really, he knows that he's watching the curve in the road.  
  
The first reply comes from the Black Mountains, a woman named Megan Jones. She offers him a post as her research assistant, but Charlie thinks of what Hagrid said – a change of scene, a little danger – and turns it down. He can feel how easy it would be to slip back into the same old routine. To get a house in the village, or an apartment in Diagon Alley, where his parents can come and visit at weekends. To sit around in the evenings, pretending he's not hoping that Bill will drop by after work. Maybe play a little Quidditch in the mornings, joining a county team, falling into the same rhythm of flying-work-Bill that's taken up so much of the last three years.  
  
The next reply comes from the Lanzhou province, a very formal invitation to travel out and negotiate a training placement. Too far away, too unfamiliar. Charlie closes his eyes, and tries to imagine what it'd be like – if he ever learnt Chinese, for a start – to live somewhere so hot and dry. It's not impossible, of course, but he gets a strange and unwordly sense of _quiet_ whenever he thinks about it, and that's enough to make him turn it down.  
  
Finally, Angus MacRae, from the Carpathians. His younger brothers' eyes go wide when Charlie announces over dinner that he's going off to work in Transylvania – the twins tease Ron with the idea that Dracula could swoop in the window and carry Charlie off, and Percy looks lofty and explains that Vlad the Impaler was merely a misunderstood historical figure. And Charlie climbs the stairs to the attic, feeling _certain_ for the first time in a long while.   
  
He writes to Bill with the news straight away, signing it with I love you' and a kiss after his name - a clumsily scratched X', put on almost as an afterthought. Because it doesn't really matter so much any more, if Charlie is going away.  
  
In the evenings, he spreads maps of Romania out on his bed, memorising the unfamiliar names: Vasclav, Bucharesti, Cslavjica. He traces the rivers and contours of the country, like veins under the surface of the living land, and wonders if he'll still be in love with Bill when it's cold in the mountains and every muscle in his body is aching. He can't even begin to imagine a time when he won't send himself to sleep by imagining Bill's breathing in the darkness, when he won't wrap his arms around his chest and dream of being held, of being _loved_.  
  
Bill returns for a few weeks, in the summer, just as Charlie is starting to pack. He's walking out of Flourish and Blotts, a collection of second-hand dragon manuals tucked under his arm, when he sees the bright flash of his brother's hair, catching the sun. Bill smiles, and puts a friendly arm around his younger brother's shoulders, burnt a deep reddish pink from the sun, but Charlie doesn't flinch. Later, when Bill finds out that Charlie is leaving the next week, his eyes darken almost imperceptibly, so that Charlie isn't sure whether he imagined it or not. Then Bill grins, and makes some comment about getting lonely in the mountains, his tone light, and Charlie squeezes his eyes shut.  
  
It's midway through August before Charlie is finally ready to leave, before he's attended all the one-day emergency mediwizardry courses, before he's signed all the disclaimers which exempt the Council from liability in the case of his death (he hides them from his parents, because now he's got his heart set on going – more than anything else, he just wants to be _away_). The attic looks bare on his side now, all his possessions packed up to fit a single rucksack, the Hogwarts scarf unpinned from the beam above his bed.   
  
The night before, Bill whispers Come here, and Charlie goes to him, closing his eyes and letting himself sink into Bill's embrace, for what might be the last time. Because he knows he'll come back, and he knows he'll see Bill again – but he's no idea what it will be like, when they can't hide behind the easy excuse of teenage experimentation. He's no idea if Bill will ever want to touch him again, not the way Charlie needs to be touched.   
  
It's slow, and gentle – Bill brushing the hair off his face, looking deep into his eyes, kisses long and lingering. Charlie doesn't want it to be over, _ever_, and brings Bill to the edge time and time again, using his hands and lips and body to give Bill a lasting memory of him, a memory of touch for when photographs fade. He kisses Bill's neck, then moves down his body, suckling at his nipples, swallowing his cock whole, dipping his tongue inside him until Bill is open and begging to be filled, his kisses wet and needy. He draws it out as long as he can, until there's nothing but this – the slow movement of arms and legs, the warm heat of Bill around his cock, rumpled sheets on a bed that Charlie won't be sleeping in, not for a long time.   
  
When it's over, he wraps himself tightly around Bill, trying to memorise everything about him, trying to fix this in his mind. He doesn't sleep much that night, and wakes Bill again at dawn, reaching out almost apologetically in the pale light of morning.  
  
He goes to meet Angus MacRae in the Black Mountains, at Tregoyd House. Charlie is a little unnerved at the dragons swooping in the distance, the pens of caged hatchlings, the men and women who look so _strong_, so capable, and that's the last thing Charlie feels himself. Bill notices that he's nervous, and gives his shoulder a quick squeeze. They stand outside waiting, while Angus goes to get the equipment and supplies that he's bringing to the Carpathians with Charlie.  
  
You'll be coming home for Christmas, won't you? Bill asks, his voice low. Charlie nods, watching the sunlight catching off Bill's hair, the way it lights up his eyes. He swallows, looking away. Someone shouts from an upstairs window, and an answering shout goes up near the dragon-pens, and for a few seconds it's enough to distract him, enough to take away the _gnawing_ feeling in his heart that's making it hard to keep standing up.   
  
Are you excited?  
  
Charlie nods, dumbly, because he knows he is - in an abstract, almost intellectual way. He's leaving, finally leaving, and the enormity of it is making his breath catch. And he's leaving _Bill_ and that hurts most of all. It feels like giving up. It feels like he's wasted three years of his life – the _best_ years of his life – and now he's never going to get them back.   
  
Bill reaches out to squeeze his hand, and sees a tear trickling down the side of Charlie's cheek. It feels hot, stinging his skin, and as Bill enfolds him in his arms, Charlie can't help it. He starts to cry quietly, his face buried in Bill's shoulder, nestled against the side of his neck. Bill holds him tight, strong arms wrapping around his shoulders and waist, pulling them close together, until Charlie can feel the pulse of Bill's heartbeat in his chest, hear the blood rushing though his veins.  
  
Oh, Char  
  
Charlie starts, and then stops, his voice shaky. He lets out a shuddering breath, letting Bill hold him up, and his arms tighten convulsively around his brother, as if his body doesn't want to let him go. The tears are making his breathing thick, and Bill murmurs to him, a low comforting noise, meaningless words. Charlie twines his fingers in Bill's hair, tugging slightly, trying to anchor Bill to him.  
  
It's going to be okay Bill's voice is low and soothing and full of emotion. He presses his lips to the side of Charlie's neck, where no-one can see. Charlie isn't really sobbing, but he feels drained all the same. Bill is warm and beloved and _home_, and he's clinging to Charlie as much as his little brother is clinging to him, almost enough to make Charlie think he's imagining it. Charlie takes deep breaths, trying to calm himself, but every time he opens his eyes it comes back. Bill strokes his back, and tells him that it'll be okay, that he'll visit soon, that Charlie will be coming back for Christmas, that he'll write.  
  
In a while, Charlie can stand up on his own again. Bill's eyes are full of compassion, and he holds Charlie's upper arms, steadying him.  
  
Are you going to be okay?  
  
Charlie swallows. Yes. I'll be fine.  
  
Are you sure? Bill tilts Charlie's face up so he can look into his eyes. Charlie nods, staring at him, trying to imprint every detail of Bill's face on his memory.  
  
Angus comes out of Tregoyd House, shielding his eyes from the sun. If he notices Charlie's red eyes, the way Bill is holding him up, he doesn't say anything. He just shoulders Charlie's backpack, hefting it onto the pallet and tying it down with ropes. Then stands up, and looks at them.  
  
Bill. I have to go, now.  
  
Charlie can't read the look in Bill's eyes, and doesn't want to – in case he starts crying again. Instead, he catches Bill in a hug, letting his head rest briefly against his brother's chest. Bill brings his hands up to clutch at Charlie's hair, and they hold each other, in silence.  
  
Then Charlie lifts his head, and Bill plants a small, quick kiss on the side of his mouth. You should go, Char, he says, and Charlie can hear the catch in his voice.  
  
Charlie nods, and steps out of his arms, trying not to look back, _wanting_ to look back.  
  
_  
  
It's quiet in the room for a few moments, nothing but the sound of their unsteady breathing, Bill's hair trailing across Charlie's damp chest. It makes his heart squeeze, that after sixteen years, so much is the same. And nothing's changed; especially not his feelings for Bill.  
  
I love you, Charlie. He says it slowly, in a tone of absolute wonder, and Charlie can't help shivering at the strange inflection in his voice. Something's different, now. He shifts his weigh under Bill, feeling them pressing together, leg to hip to chest.  
  
His voice catches. You know I love you. He pauses for a moment, feeling the words starting to rise unbidden, about to give it all away. Always. I love you.  
  
Bill's eyes are deep blue, like the sky before a storm, and those generous lips are slightly parted. Charlie wills him to understand, sick of pretending for this long. Wills him to finally, _finally_ hear what Charlie's been saying, all these years. Bill reaches up a hand, trailing it along Charlie's cheek, and the room is still.  
  
No. I _love_ you.  
  
And Charlie understands. But for a moment all he can do is stare at Bill in utter amazement, shocked into silence.   
  
Bill looks away, lowering his head. Charlie doesn't know whether it was a spur-of-the-moment thing that he's regretting, but he's transfixed; can't take his eyes off his brother, even though the warmth is leaving him, and Bill slides away from Charlie's embrace, not looking at him. You – you – Bill – He clenches his fists, angry at himself for dreaming about this for sixteen years, and still not having enough words to explain everything that needs explaining.   
  
So he cards his fingers in Bill's warm, soft hair, and starts to tremble. Everything is different, now.  
  
Never mind. I'll go, Bill says, his voice harsh with emotion. He gets up, about to walk out of Charlie's life, walk out of this moment, _again_.  
  
Charlie catches his arm, yanking him back down onto the bed until Bill's on top of him, pressed close. He takes a deep breath, forcing Bill to look into his eyes, to _understand_. No guards this time. No hiding. And Bill is breathing hard, shaking all over, and –  
  
Bill. I love you. I've been in love with you... for I don't know how long. _  
  
Bill wants the living room walls to be pale green, but Charlie prefers a dusky rose colour; eventually they settle on a compromise, by buying ten cans of terracotta-coloured paint on a whim. The colour is rich and earthy, almost the same shade as a newborn Vipertooth. It's a colour that makes Charlie think of home, and safety, and comfort. Because that's what this is, and now he's come _home_ for the first time in twenty years. The room is still only half-finished, with sheets covering all the furniture and paintbrushes littering the floor.   
  
Bill is wearing a pair of battered blue jeans and a ripped white T-shirt, a smear of paint on his forehead giving him an oddly tribal look. He sees Charlie and grins, transferring the paintbrush to his other hand so he can wrap an arm around Charlie's waist, pulling him close. Charlie pretends to study the wall that Bill's been working on, putting his head on one side and squinting.  
  
You know, Bill  
  
  
  
Charlie points. You've missed a spot.  
  
Bill follows the line of his arm for a second, then they both burst out laughing. Bill wraps both arms around Charlie, and the paintbrush drizzles terracotta paint down Charlie's back as they kiss. Charlie slides his arms around Bill's waist, slipping his hands up inside the T-shirt, gently nudging Bill's lips apart with his tongue, exploring the inside of his mouth.  
  
You taste of chocolate, Bill murmurs.  
  
Charlie makes a face. And _you_, my love, taste of paint. How on earth did you manage that?  
  
Bill shrugs, then grins and drops the paintbrush, tangling his hands in Charlie's hair. He kisses Charlie hard, so that Charlie has to lean back against the rickety stepladder, with Bill pressed against him, smelling of paint and dust and white spirit. The sunset shines through the wide, sweeping windows, turning the walls into burnished copper and Bill and Charlie's hair into clusters of red flame.  
  
I love you.  
  
I love you.  
  
Bill pushes Charlie back until he's sitting on the middle rung of the stepladder, and almost climbs on top of him, never relinquishing his mouth for a second. Charlie smiles through the kiss, reaching up to steady the paint-pot on the ledge at the top of the ladder. When they finally pull apart, Charlie has paint on his arms and in his hair, and Bill gives him a grin so wide and mischievous that he feels his legs going weak.   
  
Take your top off, he murmurs against Charlie's neck, planting a string of tiny kisses all the way up to his jawbone. Charlie slides the T-shirt off over his head, just in time for Bill to place a large, wet terracotta handprint on his chest.   
  
Bill explains, running his hands over Charlie's bare skin.  
  
Charlie agrees, and pulls him in for another kiss, the paint on his chest sticking to Bill's T-shirt, gluing them together. Now we're stuck, you know.  
  
Bill kisses him deeply, clasping his hands, twining their fingers together. That was kind of the idea.  
  
Charlie grins, and plants a light kiss on Bill's forehead, tasting paint.   
  
I love you, Bill.  
  
I know, Bill murmurs, swiping his tongue across Charlie's collarbone. No-one else would let me cover them in paint.   
  
They kiss again, long and lingering, stuck together by paint and memories and _love_, and the rest of the walls go untouched, at least until the following morning.


End file.
